Mad Gamer Chick Universe: Concurrencies
by Zoop
Summary: Collection of short pieces filling in the gaps of Karie's narrative and revealing what minor characters get up to when she's not looking.
1. Introduction

**MAD GAMER CHICK UNIVERSE**

 **CONCURRENCIES**

Azeroth is a big place with a wealth of events and people. Some of them swirl around Karie like gusts of wind that blow in and out of the Diary seemingly at random. On occasion, a few might blow back in later. She has touched many lives within the Horde, as well as the Alliance, during her adventures. Far too many to keep up with at times.

This collection of short pieces brings closure to tales begun and left dangling, unresolved. It fills in gaps during a character's hiatus from the main story. Hopefully, these bits and pieces of 'Gamer Chick Lore' answer the questions that inevitably arise when the narrator of a tale only sees one thin slice of the whole.

Journey with me as I reveal what happens when Karie isn't looking.

 **CHAPTERS**

The order of these chapters will fluctuate as events unfold, to avoid spoilers I'm not ready to reveal. The 'triggering' chapters of the Diary will be updated to point you here when a related event is expounded.

Chapter 1: How I Met Your Hunter, with Bekka and Kroxxar – Pre-Diary

Chapter 2: You Saved Me, with Grogax and Jinqies – Diary Day 38

Chapter 3: No Witnesses, with Nadezhda – Diary Day 70

Chapter 4: I Did It All For You, with Harag – Diary Day 70

Chapter 5: A Cold, Dark Place, with Nadezhda – Diary Day 106

Chapter 6: A Better Life, with Fentulk – Diary Day 150

Chapter 7: Earth's Ending, with Natalie Kendall - Diary Day 153

Chapter 8: Delivering a Warning, with Natalie Kendall – Diary Day 153

Chapter 9: Friends in High Places, with Kuadanath – Diary Day 158


	2. How I Met Your Hunter - Pre-Diary

**How I Met Your Hunter, with Bekka and Kroxxar – Pre-Diary**

In the space of time between the click and the snap, Rebecca Galeheart knew she was done for. The trap closed on her right leg with almost enough force to snap the bone. She nearly bit through her lip to stop from crying out, fearing the hunter who set it might be nearby.

She'd sent her pet jogging ahead and swiftly recalled it. The great grizzly bear she'd named Daryl just for fun loped back to her as she sank to the ground. Daryl sniffed around her wound, and drew back sharply with a growl. The hunter's scent must still linger, Bekka mused. So it wasn't an old, forgotten trap. Judging by the crudeness of its construction, she guessed it must be Horde.

Daryl panted in the stifling heat of Hellfire Peninsula as he swiveled his head about, watching for threats while Bekka pried at the jaws of the trap with a stick. The jaws had no teeth, at least. That was a blessing. Though the trap looked like an amateur hunter assembled it, she soon learned that looks were deceiving. The mechanism was tight and strong; its prey was not meant to escape. To add fuel to the fire, the trap was chained to a spike driven into the ground too deeply for her to remove it. If she could have pulled it free, she might have hauled herself onto Daryl's back and ridden him back to Honor Hold.

The dry stick broke in half. Grimacing through the pain, she emptied the bullets from her rifle and tried to use the barrel as a lever. She froze when Daryl's head rose sharply and a threatening growl rolled from deep in his chest.

Bekka didn't want to turn around. She didn't want to see who was walking toward her; the crunch of heavily booted feet on the gritty sand told her all she needed to know. She sat still as a statue and closed her eyes when the unmistakable feel of a gun barrel pressed into the back of her neck.

The thought briefly passed through her mind to send Daryl on the attack. Such was the bear's discipline, he remained steadfast though tense, awaiting her order. She had no doubt he would leap upon this hunter if he pulled the trigger. She couldn't bear the thought of anything happening to her partner; they were meant to face death together, not with one helpless and the other forced to watch.

Very slowly, Bekka raised her hands in surrender. To her surprise, the hunter grunted something under his breath, and retreated a step. The threatening pressure was removed. A large black pig common in Durotar stepped right up to Daryl and glared at him. It snorted provocatively, clearly informing the much larger bear that he should keep his distance or there'd be trouble. Then the hunter came into view and knelt by the trap.

He was an Orc. He didn't look at her or say a word; he simply groped underneath the trap. Quite suddenly, the jaws sprang open, and Bekka was able to pull free. She drew her leg close and rubbed it, regarding the Orc curiously. She couldn't claim any acquaintance with his people off the battlefield, or any understanding of their culture. This one looked a bit put out, as though he wasn't certain he was doing the right thing. After a moment, he turned his head and looked her in the eyes.

His eyes were brown. Her strongest, and worst, memories of Orcs were of their red eyes. Somehow, the red eyes were worse than the sharp tusks and predatory teeth, the towering height and thick muscles. She hadn't expected soft, gentle brown eyes would ever be set in their monstrous green faces. Except he didn't look like a monster. Perhaps in battle, with teeth bared and a war cry on his lips, he would appear monstrous. But just now, kneeling mere feet away from her with his rifle slung and a look of uncertainty on his face, he seemed like a normal person. Someone who had, perhaps, just done something he feared he might regret later, but felt he must do just this way no matter the cost.

She found herself smiling at him. Grateful, relieved, and most assuredly friendly. He was nothing like the creatures her father boasted he'd slain by the hundreds through two wars. Nor was he like the mannerless brutes her brother complained vociferously about in the Argent Dawn. He was a hunter, like her. He had a loyal pet, like she did. Glancing at the pack he'd set on the ground, it was clear he was scouring the desert for buzzard meat and pork to supply his base, just like she was. It was likely the trap was meant for one of those spiked, fel-afflicted boars that roamed the sands, not for a clumsy, inattentive Alliance hunter.

He hesitated, but finally smiled awkwardly in return. She asked his name, and he frowned. He shook his head, and said something incomprehensible. Disappointed, Bekka instead held out her hand. He shook it, one firm jerk with a hand large enough to cover her whole face. Then he rose and gave a sharp command; his pig let loose another loud snort at Daryl, then heeled to his master's side. Bekka struggled to stand, and found her leg was too weak and shaky to hold her weight. As she teetered, she felt a large hand take her elbow and steady her. She met his eyes again, and was amused to see his cheeks darken in what might be a blush before he released her and stepped back a few feet. Uncomfortable now, he stared at the ground, nodded in her direction, then turned toward Thrallmar. Bekka leaned against Daryl and watched him, wondering when she'd see that hunter again.


	3. You Saved Me – Diary Day 38

**You Saved Me, with Grogax and Jinqies – Diary Day 38**

A salty breeze blows in through a nearby porthole, and Grogax vomits. It has been a rough passage; he is certain the captain has lost his way. On the few occasions the Orc warrior has staggered topside to get a breath of air, the ship is either in the midst of a fog bank, or headed straight for one. Choppy waves and the threat of storms has rocked the deck beneath his feet and sent him to his knees many times. Glowering at the sure-footed sailors on board, he mutters under his breath that this is the worst duty he's ever been called to perform since Garrosh became Warchief.

"Airship sighted! Alliance!"

The cry is muffled by wooden planks and distance, but Grogax hears it, and hurries for his axe. Strapping on his plate armor as quickly as he can, he muscles down his gorge. It wouldn't be very impressive if he painted the deck with his last meal. Then he thunders up the steps.

The atmosphere on deck is chaos. Mists partially obscure the Alliance airship raining fire down on their heads. Soldiers and sailors are either shooting or casting at the looming airship to no avail, while deckhands try to quench the flames. At least there aren't gyrocopters weaving in and out of range, taking potshots at those on deck, though why an airship of that size would be without them, Grogax can only guess.*

"Where are the other ships?" he hears someone roar, and Captain Forecleaver takes out his spyglass. This ship has had a hard time staying with the fleet in the intermittent mists. Even now, only one is barely discernible several miles away.

Druz Forecleaver spits and folds the spyglass. "They're too far away. We're on our own. Get on the cannons and return fire!"

Grogax is better suited to fighting toe-to-toe; at a loss, he assists a cannoneer, keeping the heavy shot coming.

There is a brief lull in the bombardment as the Alliance airship pulls back into the dense fog. Unable to shoot something they can't see, the cannoneers pause, squinting into the sky. Grogax can hear the captain up top, bellowing orders.

"Bring us about! Get that fire out! Keep your eyes peeled; they're still up there!"

As if in response to the captain's suspicion, a massive exposion rocks the ship, throwing Grogax across a crate of cannonballs. He struggles to his feet, his legs shaking.

"Fuck, we're takin' on water!" the canoneer cries, even as a wave of seawater sloshes over Grogax's boots.

The warrior freezes and stares at the hull breach. He doesn't know how to swim, and he's wearing plate armor. "Whatta I do?" he breathes. The cannoneer grabs his arm and pushes him at the breach.

"Get outta here, the powder magazine's gonna blow!"

Grogax is dimly aware of fire surrounding the hole, of barrels singeing in the heat, then he is in the water, nose and throat searing with brine, and he's sinking fast.

Something slick and muscled strikes him in the midriff, and he grabs it. The druid in seal form brings him close to the surface, and Grogax draws a grateful breath. He coughs violently, clearing out the great gulp of seawater he took in. His savior squeaks and chirps at him, and he realizes the druid is struggling to keep him afloat. Holding on tightly with one arm, he reluctantly unbuckles his armor one-handed and lets the pieces sink to the bottom of the ocean.

All around him are soldiers and sailors in similar straights. Many are clinging to debris, others to druids. He can see no sign of the captain, but there are plenty of bodies floating, unmoving, in the water.

The sound of the giant propellers heralds the approach of the Alliance airship. Curling his lip, Grogax snarls in helpless fury. His axe is gone, leaving him with only his fists. Unarmored and unarmed, he has never felt so vulnerable, but he vows to use whatever means at hand to go down fighting.

One by one, the survivors are lifted on waves of magic and brought on board the airship. Shackles are affixed immediately, and the prisoners are escorted below-decks to holding cells. Grogax has no chance for attack or defense; the spell incapacitates him until the cell door closes. Because the druids are occupied with keeping soldiers from drowning, they don't assume their flight forms and escape. Now they are all in a separate cage built to contain magic users. They are unable to shapeshift, or cast healing spells on the wounded. A single surviving Tauren shaman, Korga Strongmane, sits sullenly among them.

Grogax is fairly confident that the Alliance healers won't be paying them a visit anytime soon.

* * *

"Filthy animals," the Alliance guard mutters, shaking his head as he leans smugly against a support beam. The Horde prisoners have only been in the hold for two days, yet already the place reeks of sweat and blood. One soldier has died of infection from untreated wounds; another may soon join her. Grogax glares at the human, but remains silent. He learned the day before not to goad his captors. His eye is still swollen nearly shut. The festering cuts on his leg remain untreated, and he might not survive them.

Even as the warrior half-heartedly contemplates a handful of injuries he'd like to inflict upon his jailer, a loud thump is heard, as of something heavy striking the airship's hull. The sound is quickly followed by shouts above. The guard's gaze rises upward, and he frowns. More thuds echo up and down the hold. Now the guard straightens and turns away from his charges to the stairs leading up. Grogax watches him intently; whatever is happening, the guard knows nothing about it, but won't abandon his post to find out.

A loud metallic crunching sound precedes a mighty list to one side. Barrels and crates in the hold slide across the floor and crash into the hull. The guard barely dodges a rolling barrel.

"What the hell is going on up there?" he shouts. "Phelps? Gorman? Anybody?"

The engine roar becomes deafening as the airship struggles to stay airborne. Grogax grips the bars of the cell; he can feel the ship losing altitude, and knows without a doubt that he will drown this time, if he even makes it to the water. He closes his eyes and grits his teeth.

Without warning, the airship's descent comes to an abrupt halt. The cargo in the aft section of the hold flies forward, crushing the guard against the cell. Grogax is thrown backward; his head strikes the bars, and blackness engulfs him.

* * *

"So strange," a soft voice murmurs curiously. "Have you ever seen such small Mogu, Ji?"

"I do not think they are Mogu."

"We are not. They are Orcs. I am a Tauren."

The last voice is known to Grogax, even in the fog of pain that wraps about him. _Korga. The shaman._ He can't open his eyes; the pain is too great, and the promise of bright light behind his eyelids holds no appeal.

A wet cloth wipes his forehead, and he winces. A groan escapes him, for his head is quite tender.

"There, now. You are safe."

It is the voice of a female, he is certain. A soft voice, gentle and kind. It hits Grogax without warning; he came closer to his final death too many times in the last few days for his comfort. He is no stranger of the Spirit Healer; he has found himself in her presence many times. This time, with his brother and sister warriors, and especially the healers they rely on, struggling to stay alive, there might not have been an opportunity to retrieve his soul, and bring him back. He lost his armor, he lost his weapon. Without them, he was as helpless as a newborn whelp. He could defend no one, not even himself. To die gloriously in battle should be his destiny, not drowning in the middle of a strange ocean. His breath catches and he has to swallow hard.

"Sshh, sshh. It is all right. Here, drink this. It will strengthen you."

He feels a cup at his lips, and loosens the tension in his jaw. Clinging to her reassuring voice, he drinks the warm, soothing liquid.

"Can you help us? We must gather bamboo stalks for weapons," Korga says nearby.

"Oh, of course," the soft voice replies.

Grogax feels her shift positions, and realizes she is leaving. He makes a great effort to force his eyes open.

Sunlight frames an unexpectedly fur-covered face, but she is no Tauren. The shape is not unlike a bear's, yet the markings about her eyes... He is arrested by their pattern, for they remind him of the wings of the Spirit Healer.

"Am I dead?"

She smiles kindly. "No, you are not. Rest now."

Without thinking, he clutches her hand weakly. "Will I see you again?"

"I do not know." Her brow creases with uncertainty. She squeezes his hand briefly, then easily pulls from his grip. "I am sorry. I do not know."

She has already gone out the door when he thinks to ask her name.

* * *

* The gyrocopters assigned to the _Skyseeker_ were deployed to Pandaria and used to establish Strongarm Airstrip in northern Jade Forest. The _Skyseeker_ dropped Captain Doren off in Pandaria with a small force, intending to fetch reinforcements from Stormwind when they encountered the Horde fleet and engaged them. Resuming their journey to Stormwind after taking on prisoners, the _Skyseeker_ was brought down by saurok and crash-landed on Shen-zin Su, the Wandering Isle.


	4. No Witnesses – Diary Day 70

**No Witnesses, With Nadezhda – Diary Day 70**

Nadezhda fell to screaming that still rings in her ears as she slowly comes to consciousness. For a moment, she is disoriented: Karie is in trouble. There are a Goblin and an Orc, a great deal of shouting, a knife at her throat...

Not at Karie's throat. No, the knife was drawn on Nadezhda.

 _I must rise_ , the Draenei paladin tells herself. Yet she is reluctant, fearing what she will see when she opens her eyes. Had they left their comrade's corpse behind? Would she see Karie's beside him, done in after the Orc struck Nadezhda?

 _I am a paladin of the Light_ , she admonishes herself. Firming her resolve, she opens her eyes. The Goblin is splayed upon the floor, just as he was when the silent Orc's arm thrust past Nadezha's body, slicing low and to his right. She can see again the hard-muscled green arm, the thick fist clutching the dagger that gleamed with an unholy light.

Her thoughts are confusion again, and she must shake her head to clear it. It was poison on the blade, not some eldritch enchantment. Had he only nicked his comrade, the result would have been the same. Had he nicked _her_...

Rubbing the back of her head, Nadezhda sits up and leans against the wall. She must gather herself. The defector – Karie – has undoubtedly departed with the Orc. They were on some sort of mission, the purpose of which was not revealed. Still, she is duty bound to file a report. _Any_ activity involving the defector must be brought to Shaw's attention.

 _But I **knew** her_, Nadezhda protests. _She wept for Rhonin – what person loyal to the Horde would do such a thing?_ Karie did her no harm, and seemed unwilling to do harm to anyone else. Wasn't she as eager to find Anduin as Nadezhda was?

The paladin freezes. They were looking for the prince. Did this mysterious mission somehow involve the young Wrynn? The thought is too awful to contemplate. _I cannot speculate on such a thing_ , she decides. If anything, Karie seemed to become more agitated and anxious the closer they got to Anduin. Perhaps he knew her personally, and would recognize her? If Karie's mission counted on the woman's anonymity, recognition by such an important figure would certainly foil the Horde's plans.

No, only the known facts could be relied upon. Nadezhda gets to her feet, steadying herself when the room tilts briefly. That Orc struck hard to secure their escape.

Harag. The name comes to her in a flash, for both the Goblin and Karie spoke it repeatedly. With the Orc's name comes a strong vision of Karie's face as she pleaded with the rogue not to harm Nadezhda. Begged him. Insisted Nadezhda knew nothing, all the while that the Goblin urged him to kill her. And then the Goblin drew his own elaborately carved blade, and lunged...

Nadezhda pinches the bridge of her nose and squeezes her eyes closed, trying to remember. The Orc's arm is a rich shade of green, like new spring grass. There is an old scar on the inside, from wrist to elbow. She did not see his face, but out of the corner of her eye, she recalls that he'd draped a long, unadorned braid over his shoulder. His hair is black. The blade he used to kill his comrade is crude, unlike the fancy sorts of blades she's seen other rogues wield, including the Goblin.

 _He is a simple man,_ she concludes. _Not one for talk, even in dire circumstances. Straightforward and blunt when he does speak._

Is it her imagination that calls to mind how his tension relaxed a degree under Karie's desperate urging? Did the knife blade lower, or is her mind still rattled?

Yet she wonders as she descends the stairs to inform the innkeeper of the incident. Can it be that Harag saved her from his own comrade? That he had no intention of killing her, regardless of his comrade's commands?

 _I must know the truth_ , she resolves. _To learn that, I must find him._


	5. I Did It All For You - Diary Day 70

**I Did It All For You, with Harag – Diary Day 70**

Harag falls to his hands and knees, gasping for breath. He drags great gulps of air into his lungs, slowly expanding them. He coughs violently and nearly retches. He can feel his insides realigning.

The teleportation device is one of his own design, but he'd never tested it until today. First things first: has he landed where he intended? It will make things more difficult, if not impossible, if he overshot his target by more than a mile. He raises his head and peers about him.

Only now that his eyes behold the swaying grasses of the Barrens is he aware of the oppressive heat. Good. He has at least landed in the right region. Harag struggles to his feet. Second thing: did he leave any bits behind? He quickly pats himself down. As far as he can tell from cursory examination, he is sufficiently intact. In the middle distance, he sees a modest hut and a pen full of swine, and hesitates.

 _Get moving_ , he admonishes himself. Time is not on his side. He fishes an awkward-looking device from his pack and flips it open. His chopper unfolds in a handful of seconds, then explodes into life, the engine already running. It's a good mile to the farm: Harag mounts the chopper and guns the engine. A plume of dust rises behind him as he races forward.

His approach is loud enough to warn the farmers of his coming. He sees a man and woman, their rich green skin shining with sweat from a hard morning's work. A lump rises in Harag's throat, but he fights it down. He knows they won't be happy to see him, less so when he tells them why he's come.

The male Orc – Gramak – scowls as Harag comes close enough to recognize. He spits on the ground, showing in no uncertain terms where Harag stands with him. The woman, Drahar, glares coldly, her arms crossed.

"Whattayou want?" Gramak snarls as Harag stops and climbs off the chopper. "I thought I made it clear you're not welcome."

"Da, you've gotta..."

"Don't you call me 'da' like nothin' happened!" Gramak roars. Drahar hisses beside him. "You made yer choice."

"Listen to me!" Harag snaps. "We don't have time for this. You gotta get outta here. Now. Both of you." His eyes dart from one to the other, pleading. _Don't make this harder than it already is_.

"We aren't going anywhere," Drahar growls. "Especially not on _your_ word."

Harag looks toward Orgrimmar to the east. The skies are clear, for now. "You gotta listen to me. Malkorak is comin'. He'll be here any minute. I did somethin'... I messed up. Real bad."

"And we're to pay for it, are we?" The older Orc's scowl darkens further. "How can you live with yourself? Without honor? Without conscience?"

Harag stares at his father, unable to answer. There isn't time. How can he explain everything in the few minutes they have? "If I don't do what I'm told, you suffer. So I do it. No matter what it is. You suffered enough."

In the space of a heartbeat, the memory of his mother in the camps invades his thoughts. It is a sight that haunts him still, his strong-willed, stubborn mother brought to tears by the abuses of the guards. He sees his father, helpless to defend her, nursing wounds when he tried. He sees himself, ushered to manhood by impotent rage far too soon.

Drahar steps forward and furiously slaps Harag's face, whipping his head sideways and recalling his mind to now. "How dare you lay the blame of your dishonor on our heads!"

"Ain't your fault," Harag mutters, holding his stinging cheek. He can't look at her. "None of it's your fault. I fucked up, and now... now you gotta run. I'm sorry."

"We ain't weak, boy," Gramak grunts. "We worked hard for this place; we'll defend it. We don't need _you_." Again, he spits at Harag's feet.

"What did you do?" Drahar hisses. Her tone tells him that no horror he commits could possibly shock her anymore.

"Mama," Harag breathes. She doesn't correct him, but her eyes narrow. Swallowing, he confesses, "I murdered my partner to save a Draenei."

Gramak's brow furrows with confusion. "Why would you save one of them? What was goin' on?"

"It doesn't matter now," Harag snaps, shaking himself. "Point is, the whole mission got scuppered 'cause of me. What I did ain't gonna sit well with Malkorok. He'll come for you, to punish me." His eyes dart to the east again, and widen. A formation of several wyverns is headed this way. "Shit! Get the fuck outta here! Don't tell me where you're goin', just go!"

Ignoring his parents' protests, Harag grabs their arms and forces them to run for it. He keeps pace for a few yards, his panic feeding their alarm. They grab the nearest wolves, mount up, and gallop off. Harag stays behind. He might be able to delay Malkorok long enough so his parents can escape.

Turning toward the approaching group, Harag wills himself to calm. He slowly, deliberately draws one dagger, applies a crippling poison, then draws the other for the same. Harag knows death comes for him on wyvern wings, and stands to face it.

* * *

A quarter mile away, Drahar signals for her husband to stop. They conceal themselves and their wolves behind an outcropping of rock. The wolves, unused to the sudden sprint in the heat, stand panting.

In the distance, they can see the farm, and their son standing with naked blades in his hands. Six wyverns land before him. Words are exchanged, angry gestures fly, then the lead Orc pushes Harag roughly. Another punches him, then a fight ensues. Gramak finds his wife's hand, and holds tightly.

Six against one. Though Harag's blades flash in the afternoon sun, he is no match for so many. Gramak automatically sucks in a breath when his son falls. Drahar growls to hide a sob as all six assailants continue to beat and kick the prone figure.

A seventh wyvern arrives, but the rider doesn't dismount. At his word, however, the others disengage from their victim and mount up. The seven take to the skies as the ground rumbles beneath Gramak and Drahar's feet.

They watch, helpless, as the familiar dust cloud kicked up by hundreds of angry kodo feet closes in on their farm. They listen as the wind carries the panicked squeals of their pigs to their ears. They watch until the dust settles, the silhouette of their ruined home's timbers pointing haphazardly skyward. It is impossible to tell from this distance which dark shape strewn about the farm is their son.

"Should we...?" Drahar ventures unsteadily.

Gramak slowly shakes his head. "He wanted us to go. To run. Like as not, that lot'll come back, looking for us. He... Harag knew best."

Closing her eyes, Drahar murmurs, "I would've forgiven him. He did what we could not."

"Honor came too late to him," Gramak replies sadly, "as it came too late to us."


	6. A Cold, Dark Place – Diary Day 106

**A Cold, Dark Place, With Nadezhda – Diary Day 106**

Details of Horde members are difficult to come by. Nadezhda's brow furrows as she pores over scrolls dating back years, hunting for Harag's name. Very few of the reports from the field mention any enemy soldier by name; they are referenced by race, or simply as 'Horde soldier' and the like. She rubs her forehead and closes her eyes.

She has spent days in the library of Dalaran, where all the military records of both sides are gathered. Battle plans penned by Uther the Lightbringer himself are mixed haphazardly with a quartermaster's purchase order bearing General Turalyon's signature. From the Horde, there is little; maps show troop placement, but whether they were drawn by the Alliance or the Horde is unclear.

 _Where are you?_ she wonders, frustrated.

"Oh dear," a high-pitched voice says nearby.

Nadezhda looks up, grateful for a moment's respite from her fruitless search. "Have I stayed too late?"

"No, no, no," the Gnome replies, waving dismissively. She approaches the table Nadezhda has piled with scrolls. "I haven't had a chance to organize this collection. I just wanted to get a look at it, and see what I was up against." She looks around helplessly. "I don't mind saying it: this is a mess."

Nadezhda smiles. She knows this mage; Bralla thrives on sorting and cataloguing. Such haphazard chaos as this can be nothing but a welcome challenge for her.

Then Nadezhda starts. If anyone knows where Horde troop rosters or written orders might be kept, it is Bralla.

"I'm so glad you arrived," she says. "I am trying to find particular information, but it seems to be either well-hidden, or it doesn't exist. Perhaps you can help me."

"Of course!" Bralla pipes enthusiastically. "What are you looking for?"

"I am looking for a Horde soldier," she begins, then falters. "Not just any. A particular one. I have his name, but little else."

"Oh." The Gnome's face falls. Her brow creases in much the same way that Nadezhda's did. "That will be difficult. Do you happen to know any Horde members who might know this soldier?"

"I'm afraid I don't," Nadezhda sighs. "I know some folk in the Earthen Ring who have connections among the Horde, but this particular soldier is a rogue. I'm not certain they… travel in the same circles, as it were."

"And these accounts aren't helping?" Bralla asks, gesturing to the books stacked beside the table.

Nadezhda shakes her head. "Alas, no. They speak of the Horde's actions, true, but only important figures such as Grommash Hellscream or Orgrim Doomhammer are mentioned by name. The common soldiery is noted generally, not specifically."

Bralla sighs, nodding. "That is, unfortunately, common. And if he is a rogue, I'm sure his activities are kept very quiet," she adds with amusement.

"Of course, you are right," Nadezhda murmurs. Her shoulders sag. Where will she find mention of him? His origins? His current whereabouts? "I simply must find him."

"Well, we could try scrying," the mage suggests thoughtfully. "Of course, you are a paladin – maybe you can commune with the Light?"

"I could do that," Nadezhda agrees. "Directly, as it happens. O'ros resides in the Exodar. It has been years since we last spoke." She nods firmly, clear on her path forward. "I will go see O'ros."

* * *

Nadezhda sighs with contentment as she enters the Exodar. There is a song in the way the crystals shine, and it sings to her heart. The Seat of the Naaru is down a spiraling ramp that, though Nadezhda's purpose inspires haste, the paladin descends slowly, reverently. She can feel O'ros's presence growing stronger as she nears. Her confidence grows, so that when she enters its chamber and faces the great naaru, she is certain O'ros will bless her quest.

Humbly she kneels before O'ros, and hears its chiming voice in her mind.

 _My child, you bear a great burden._

"I do," she replies. "I seek one who saved my life, at great risk to his own."

 _You seek the Orc._

"Yes. I have not been able to find him in the records, yet I _must_ find him."

 _Why must you? He is an enemy of your people._

Nadezhda frowns. "That is true," she replies slowly, "but as I said, he saved my life. His comrade would have slain me. He killed one of his own to prevent it."

There is silence for a long moment, leaving Nadezhda nervous. She adds, "I am curious, you see. To know if I am correct. Did he ever intend to do me harm? I do not know."

 _Your curiosity is not the reason._

She feels the blush build upon her cheeks and clears her throat uncomfortably. "Nevertheless, I wish to find him. Is my purpose incorrect? Is it a mistake?"

 _It is rarely a mistake to seek knowledge. It is the journey that brings wisdom, not the destination._

"Do you know where I may find him?"

 _He is in a cold, dark place. A place of beginnings and endings._

Startled, Nadezhda stares at O'ros, though its light is nearly blinding. "Is he… alive?"

 _That is for you to discover._


	7. A Better Life – Diary Day 150

**A Better Life, with Fentulk – Diary Day 150**

"Hold it steady, now," Tagdish advises. Fentulk obeys, making sure not to let the post drift so much as an inch in any direction. Tagdish and Rugak raise the crosspiece and settle it into position, resting atop the post and connecting with the main part of Fentulk's house. While Rugak holds the crosspiece in place, Tagdish quickly wraps a long leather thong about the end, securing the cross to the post. He does the same at the other end.

Rugak wipes his sweating brow. "Seems just a week ago, we were puttin' up the main house." He grins at his childhood friend. "Didn't waste time, did you?"

Fentulk chuckles. "Nope." He surveys the circle of ground around the post, and his brow furrows worriedly. "Think it's too small?"

'It'll do for a start," Tagdish replies, pushing a mug of ale into his son's hand. "Can always make it bigger when you need to."

A shout comes from the watchtower nearby. A troop of warriors thunders past on wolves. Fentulk's frown returns.

"Seems them attacks've been comin' more often," Tagdish observes quietly.

"You think it might be cause of what they're doin' on Azeroth?" Rugak asks.

"Who can tell?" the elder Orc shrugs. "They don't keep us informed of their doin's. If they're up to somethin', and it involves demons, they sure as hell don't bother us with it."

"Got enough demons to worry about," Fentulk adds. He had hoped for peace here in Garadar with his mate. It was what he promised. Yet not long after they became lifemates, demon activity to the west began to increase. Game animals became more scarce. Hunters began disappearing as they traveled farther afield in search of meat. Then the very walls of Garadar became a target.

"Kashka says they're testin' us," Tagdish supplies. "Lookin' for weaknesses." He spits on the ground, suddenly angered. His mate should be enjoying a quiet life, training whelps and preparing for her grandkids, not guarding the gates with the young pups. She's done her time, just as he has. The wars are over, aren't they?

"Fuck," Rugak snarls under his breath. He has caught sight of a messenger swooping low over the eastern wall. The distinctive red of a Horde tabard marks the newcomer's identity. "Whatta they want now?"

"Better go see," Fentulk sighs. "Can't be good, whatever it is." The three Mag'har make their way to the council hall.

Greatmother Geyah is looking at the messenger with a shocked expression as Fentulk, Rugak, and Tagdish arrive. "How can this be?"

Several other Orcs are here as well, all drawn by the rare sight of a Horde soldier. The green Orc nods to the growing crowd and continues delivering his message.

"Grom Hellscream lives on the other Draenor, Greatmother. He has invited any who survive here to come and resettle. He knows of the conditions, what is left of this place, and your struggles. He is offering a fresh start to any who do not have a... version of themselves on his Draenor." He sighs apologetically. "I'm afraid your counterpart is alive there, so..."

The elder shaman slowly sits. One of her apprentices assists her. "This will require... thought and... and planning. Such a generous offer..."

"Time is short," the messenger adds. "The Horde and Alliance will be closing off their portals in a week's time. There will not be any access after that."

"And I cannot lead my people there."

"I'm sorry, no." He fumbles a scroll from his pack. "This is a list of all the folk who were lost during the conflict there. Most of them were Iron Horde. Followers of Garrosh. Any whose name is on this list, or were born later than their time, are free to relocate."

There is a scramble to get a hold of the scroll. Tagdish and his son hold back, too stunned to move. Rugak addresses the messenger.

"What about demons? You say it's another Draenor. Are there demons?"

The messenger nods. "Some, yes. But they do not have the foothold they gained here, and the Orcs and Draenei are united against them."

Many freeze where they stand. "United?" one blurts incredulously. "Draenei and Orcs?"

"Yes. The blood of Mannoroth was offered, but it was denied. The Orcs were never corrupted there. No genocidal war was engaged."

"The world is... intact?" another whispers, afraid of the answer.

Smiling, the messenger nods again. "It is as we all remember it, in our younger days."

"To see Frostfire Ridge once more...," Geyah breathes, closing her eyes. Then her eyes snap open, and she fixes the messenger with a hard look. "My sons."

"Durotan lives," he confirms uncomfortably. "And Draka, his mate. No others survive."

"Ga'nar no doubt died gloriously in battle," she murmurs. The messenger nods.

"He did. Most bravely, I was told."

"I will see my boy again," Geyah growls defiantly, rising to her feet. She waves off her apprentice's aid. "You will not stop me from going to this world. I must see my son."

"With all due respect, he is not your son." The messenger addresses the Mag'har, their numbers increased over the last several minutes as word of the offer spread. "This is Draenor as it might have been. There are familiar folk there, but they are not us, they are not our relations. They are different." He turns once more to Geyah. "Your mate was not felled by a pox, but by his eldest son's hand."

Geyah winces and bows her head. "Nevertheless, I will go there." She glares at the messenger. "I'm certain my twin would allow it."

"Perhaps... permission for such an important figure as yourself...," the messenger hedges reluctantly. "I shall appeal to their warchief on your behalf." Turning to the crowd, he adds, "I will return in a week. All those who are on this list or are less than thirty years of age, and wish to come, have your belongings packed and ready upon my return."

Fentulk and Rugak hang back as Tagdish joins the throng poring over the list.

"Whattayou think?" Rugak asks.

"I dunno. Have to talk about it with Joanne. Sure is temptin'. I mean, how much longer are we gonna hold out here? The demons are squeezin' us out, animals are dyin', bound to run outta water some time..."

"There's yer whelp to think of, too," Rugak points out. "You want it comin' into a world broken in pieces, or one that still lives?"

Fentulk nods. "I promised her peace. Ain't been able to give it to her. Maybe there..."

Rugak snorts. "You heard what he said. They got their share of demons, too."

"Not near as many," Fentulk points out. "You know much about that... uh, other...?" He shakes his head, unsure how to refer to this 'new' Draenor.

His friend shakes his head. "First I've heard of it. Yer da's right: them folks on Azeroth don't bother us with their business, and stay clear of ours. Until now."

"Until now." Fentulk furrows his brow, thinking hard. He realizes in moments that he has made up his mind, and merely searches for counterarguments if Joanne disagrees with him. Chuckling, he shakes his head. "You and me, we're both young enough. Joanne's not from this world. We can go."

"Aye," Rugak nods. "We can. Tell you what: they're gonna have to chase me off. I ain't stayin' in this shit hole a minute longer'n I have to." He gives Fentulk a hard look. "The Mok'nathal village is right on the edge. We can look straight into the abyss. More'n a couple kids've been lost, playin' too close to the ledge. If I ever have another... I don't wanna see... Not one of mine, goin' that way."

"Me neither. That's settled. You, me, and Joanne." He glances over, and sees his father returning with an unreadable expression. "Shit."

"You two weren't on the list?" Rugak asks, frowning.

Tagdish draws a deep breath. "No, we was on there. We... that is, our other... The other us. They were Iron Horde. They fell at Shattrath." He rubs his forehead, clearly troubled. "Don't know how to feel 'bout that."

"You heard what the messenger said, da," Fentulk reminds him quietly. "They ain't us. Things're different there. So... them bein' dead, you and ma can go. All of us can go." A smile creeps across his face. "Cause I'm takin' Joanne, and I know you wanna see yer grandkids."

"Yep," Tagdish nods, firming his mouth to hide a smile. "Wonder which of you the little mite'll favor."

"Me too." Fentulk claps his father's shoulder. "Come on. Let's tell the women."

Tagdish's face splits in a grin. "Boy, what makes you think you can 'tell the women' and get yer way?"

Fentulk taps his temple. "Got all my proofs and counters right up here."

"You _think_ you do," Tagdish scoffs. "Nah, you let me do the talkin'. I been at this game a lot longer. Watch and learn."

Sharing a wink with Rugak, Fentulk rolls up his sleeves. "Ma's gonna make a meal of you, da."


	8. Earth's Ending - Diary Day 153

**Earth's Ending, with Natalie Kendall - Diary Day 153**

Natalie Kendall barely remembers what it was like before the demons came. Barely six months have passed, yet the memories of sunshine, car horns, children playing in the city park, commuters texting on the buses, music blaring from bars, and streams of pedestrians on the sidewalks are too distant and out of place to recall.

She can remember that two days ago, she ate a skinny rat. Yesterday, she wasn't so lucky. Today, she is crouching amidst the rubble of a collapsed office building, trying not to be seen, while a robotic monstrosity lumbers down the otherwise empty street, its metallic growl rumbling in her ears. Nat is motionless, staring unblinking at the huge, vaguely humanoid machine. This particular block is familiar: the financial district, where her father worked before... A brief vision jogs loose, of her as a child, pulling her father's hand as they weave through the crowds to the building's entrance. She is all smiles, because daddy is taking her to see his office for the first time, and she can't wait to get there. The memory is tainted now, and she pushes it away.

The abomination known as a fel reaver rounds the corner of the next block down, and is gone from sight, though its noise carries, echoing hollowly between the skeletal remains of shattered buildings. Nat peers over the fel-blasted chunks of concrete, her eyes darting, watching for movement in the omnipresent gloom. Seeing nothing, she cautiously moves on to another street.

Day or night, it doesn't matter. It should be colder; the sun's rays are blocked by green-tinged, black clouds, yet the stagnant heat and humidity steals her breath. When the portals appeared and began spewing forth their demonic contents, the sky blackened, plunging the Earth into perpetual twilight. Horrifying creatures out of nightmares descended upon the humans of Earth. Millions were slain the first day of the invasion. Millions more joined them with each passing day. Those who survived the initial onslaught, and hid well from the demon hordes forever hunting for new prey, were faced with eventual starvation as the world's vegetation withered and died.

Nat's entire family are among the dead. Her brother Joey and sister Melissa were taken with several hundred others, and used to fuel what the demons called a soul engine. Her mother, Margaret, was finally caught three weeks ago and butchered with thousands plucked from all over the world at random. Her father...

She doesn't know, and tells herself she doesn't care, what fate eventually befell her father. After fruitless struggle, survivors fell into two categories: those who hid, and those who collaborated. Howard Kendall joined the Legion in the first month. She hasn't seen him since.

Margaret had ensured her daughter's survival for as long as she could. Alone now, Nat could only delay the inevitable. The governments of the world had failed their people almost immediately. Obsessed with their own agendas and policies, they refused to unite against the common enemy. At first, the leaders could claim 'not in my backyard, not my problem' as an excuse for not assisting. It only took a few days for the portals to canvas the globe, putting an army of demons on every street. Militaries mobilized, but bullets and bombs have little effect on creatures whose deaths are impermanent. Kill a mighty demon one day, and it appears just as strong and deadly somewhere else the next. If the human race ever stood a chance to thwart the Legion invasion, the opportunity was lost.

Nat's eyes rise to the sky. She has found shelter in the basement of a gutted apartment building, its upper floors long since obliterated. Nothing stirs on the streets, and the flying demons are a fair distance off. If she doesn't move very much, they won't see her. Her stomach is pinched with hunger; she no longer knows what it was like when she was overweight, able to eat her fill and then some. If she is able to finish a day with a mouthful of something edible, she is content now. Tonight, she is anxious, for not even rats stir when the demons are about. But she is tired. Another day has ended without food. Tomorrow she must be vigilant. She must cover more ground, travel farther, dig deeper. Perhaps she will discover another survivor or two, willing to join forces. Or a recent victim... No, she is not to that point. Not yet.

* * *

Mornings look no different from evenings. Nat's eyes open a slit, and she listens, waiting. She might have only dozed off minutes ago, not hours, for the sky is still black with those strange tendrils of green energy soaring and twisting above. She learned early not to make sudden movements or sounds on waking, and assesses in self-imposed paralysis. Is it quiet, but not too quiet? Is anything breathing? Is anything moving?

Today is different. There are no demons hunting in the ruins nearby, nor can she see the flying ones – doomlords, fel guards, and the like – gliding overhead with their cold eyes scanning the rubble. Hopeful that their relaxed search for victims might coax a rat or two out of hiding, Nat makes her way slowly up to the street.

As she peers out beyond the apartment building, the air in front of her suddenly begins to boil green. She freezes for a heartbeat, then retreats into the shadows before the portal can fully form.

What steps out of the portal is no demon. He's a man, wearing what looks like the worn out remains of a business suit. His hair is overgrown, and his beard is unkempt, yet she recognizes him easily. Stunned, Nat stares at the disheveled figure, unsure how to react.

"Hello? I know you're there," he says, his worried voice echoing ominously in the silence. He holds up an oddly-shaped, hand-sized device. "I've been tracking you and the others for months. Come out, honey. Please?"

Nat scowls with fresh hate, but doesn't move.

Howard Kendall swallows, and bows his head. "I know what... what you've all thought. About what I did. And why. But you don't know. I couldn't _let_ you know." He glances at his watch apprehensively. "There isn't time. You have to come out and listen."

 _No,_ Nat mouths, making almost no sound.

As if he's heard, he continues. "We were losing. You know that, don't you? Losing more people every day. I thought... I thought if I joined them, like some people were, I could... I could learn their weaknesses. Sort out some way that we could fight them." He looks down at the device in his hand. "This is one of theirs. I used... used my own blood to... to make it find my family. But I didn't let them know I'd found you alive." He slowly raises his head. A helpless, hopeless smile tips his mouth. "So simple a thing. Little glowing dots. You don't think that... that they mean anything, until... until they go out. One after another." He lets out a shuddering sigh. "I don't know which one you are. Please come out."

Nat can see his eyes shimmering, and for a moment her heart aches. Old wounds she'd thought were healed rip open, and in that moment, she wants to run to her father and embrace him. She's a little girl again, looking up at her daddy adoringly, clinging to his hand on a sidewalk full of people. But all she can do is cover her mouth with her hand, and stifle her reaction.

"I'm here because it's over," Howard says, his voice flat. "The Legion is... well, they're bored, I suppose. Other worlds to conquer; that sort of thing. Earth is nearly done for. They'll, um, they'll..." He takes a deep breath, steels himself, and says, "They'll incinerate this planet. Burn it away. So that it... it isn't here anymore." Firming his mouth, he holds up the device. Nat can see a small green dot glowing on the black screen. "I've watched this dot. It's given me hope. It's all I had to hold on to. I had to do... terrible things, so they wouldn't know I wasn't... So I could learn..." He hangs his head, and a sob escapes. "I did terrible, unforgiveable things."

Howard lowers the device and swallows hard, steadying himself. He looks in the direction of his child. "The demons are planning to attack another world. They could be there already. The thing is, they've been there before. They were defeated. So... this other world... maybe they'll manage it again." He rummages in his pocket, and draws forth another small, hand-held device. "This will take you away from here. Take you to that other world. You can warn them."

Nat frowns, torn between distrust and a child's loyalty to a parent. Is he trying to trick her? Should she break cover and confront him, tell him of her pain? She has a crowbar for defense – should she kill her own father? Could she?

Looking at his pained, desperate face drains her of hatred. Bumbling, awkward, nerdy Howard Kendall, her father. Always trying to do what's right. Somehow, it's easier to see that Howard, than the sinister betrayor she'd thought he was for so long.

But one question nags, and she voices it now, though she hasn't spoken out loud for weeks.

"Was it worth it?"

Startled, her father straightens and peers intently toward the sound of her voice. "Nat? It's you? Honey, is it really you?" Tears erupt from his eyes and his chin quivers, his voice shakes. "Let me see you, honey. Please."

She is reluctant to emerge from her hiding place, and does so very slowly. She is weak from hunger; limbs that once boasted healthy flesh are now wasted, revealing the shapes of her bones. Her hair has thinned from starvation and stress. Once a rich auburn, even the color has faded to dullness. She is not surprised that he chokes back a cry and covers his mouth when he sees her.

"Oh my god, sweetie," he breathes. "I am so sorry."

"Was it worth it?" she repeats, her voice a rasping whisper.

Howard struggles to compose himself. The question seems to bring him shame, for he hangs his head and won't look at her. "No. If I'd learned anything – anything at all – that might have helped us, it would've been. We can't fight them. They're... magical, I guess. Only magic can beat them, not bombs or tanks or guns. Not even lasers."

"What if... what if everyone worked together from the beginning...?" she ventures desperately, and he shakes his head.

"It wouldn't have made any difference. I used to think we wasted time, arguing over how much it would cost to fight back, who was going to pay for the military uptick, where we could safeguard our economic foundation... All of it was bullshit. Nothing mattered. And now here we are..."

"Here we are," Nat nods. Her gaze falls on the device in her father's hand.

"This will take you there," he reminds her. "To that world that fought back. You can tell them... tell them what's coming. So they're prepared."

She is suddenly overwhelmed with sorrow, and can barely keep her voice steady. "What about you?"

"I think... I'll stay," Howard replies with a sad half smile. "Maybe I'm not to blame for... for this whole thing, but..." He looks around helplessly at the ruins, his lined face strained. "People died because of me. I thought it was a necessary trade-off – a few sacrificed for the greater good, just a few compared with millions I could save with the information I hoped to get. Except I didn't find out anything useful. I couldn't save those millions. I couldn't save anyone." He turns his devastated gaze to her once more. "It wasn't worth it. None of it was."

Pressing his lips firmly and swallowing, he seems to force himself to ask, "Is your mom...?" Nat is certain by the quaver in his voice that he already knows the answer.

"No."

He nods quickly, bowing his head in grief. He takes slow, shuddering breaths. "They'll know this was turned on in moments, so... so I'll destroy it as soon as you go through. So they can't follow right away. You have to find someone, anyone, and warn them. Can you do that?"

Nat doesn't have to look beyond her father at the demolished buildings, the skeletal structures, the sky full of sickly green and black clouds. She nods.

Howard places the device on the ground. While he crouches next to it, he glances up at his daughter. "Ready?"

She shakes her head. Her vision blurs, and she is suddenly in his arms, weeping wildly. He holds tightly, and though her body is fragile and his embrace is painful, she endures for as long as she can.

"It's all right, sweetie," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. "Let's get you out of here, okay?"

Drawing back, Nat looks intently at her father, memorizing his features. "Daddy," she whispers, and her heart breaks, seeing his eyes fill once more. There are a million things she wants to say – recriminations for her pain, affirmations of her love – but she can see what he needs to hear. "I forgive you."

"Thank you," he breathes, and pulls her close again for a final squeeze. "I'll never forgive myself, but... thank you."

"I love you, Daddy," she tells him firmly. "I'll warn those people. I promise."

"I know you will, sugarlump." He forces a smile as he releases her. Wiping his eyes, he gives her a significant look, and she nods. He presses an oval button on the device.

The air above the device shimmers and boils green. Trusting in her father's word, Natalie Kendall steps through the portal.


	9. Delivering a Warning - Diary Day 153

**Delivering a Warning, with Natalie Kendall – Diary Day 153**

Natalie tumbles head over heels through space for an immeasurable period of time. It could be seconds, or days. Perhaps even years. Her wasted body is squeezed and stretched, expanded and contracted in painful, nauseating repetition. Lights streak past – could they be stars? – so fast she has to close her eyes. There is interminable screaming all around, screams of terror and pain. She has to cover her ears. Then, as quickly as it began, everything stops, and she realizes in a daze that she is lying on the ground in a hot, dry place. All she can hear now is her own labored breathing, interspersed with painful, wracking sobs. There is bright light behind her tightly closed eyelids. Then she hears shouts and pounding feet approaching. She opens her eyes to large boots, and slowly looks up and up into a monster's face.

Its skin is green, and from its broad mouth sprout gleaming tusks. The tusks remind her of some of the demons she's seen before, but they didn't look quite like this. Its brow is creased with fury and it shouts at her. It brandishes an axe, and she recoils in fear. Another creature steps into view and grabs the green one by the wrist. This one is even more bizarre, for it has the head of a bull. More brutish green creatures approach Natalie where she cowers on the dusty ground. There is a lot of shouting and pushing; she's surrounded, and they all seem to want a look at her.

 _I look strange to them_ , she realizes. Though she still gasps to refill lungs that were squeezed empty in the portal, Nat tries to calm herself. She now sees a differently shaped green creature, smaller than the first one to appear, but nearly as tall. A female of the species, perhaps? Though they are unfathomably strange to her, they all seem to be humanoid. Then she sees something unexpected.

Peeking from between the legs of two green people is an imp, licking its lips hungrily and leering at her. With an instinctive cry, Nat flings sand into its eyes, then kicks it in the face. She scrambles to her feet and tries to flee.

To her surprise, a green one grabs her arm. His grip is painful, and she wimpers. He realizes instantly how thin she is, and relaxes his grip, though he doesn't let go. There is more shouting; one of the green males seems particularly incensed. The one holding Natalie maneuvers himself between her and the offended one, and _roars_ at him. He points at the imp, still shrieking and wiping grit from its eyes. The offended one sneers. Nat's protector makes a fist; she braces herself for the punch that must surely be coming, but instead of taking a swing, he flips his hand open, palm upward in front of him. Natalie is so startled she nearly comes loose from his hold.

In his hand appears a ball of fire larger than her head. Nat can feel the heat; it's not an illusion. He seems to be threatening the offended one with it. There is a stand-off for several moments, the two green males glaring at one another. Then the offended one chuckles snidely and snaps his thick fingers. The imp disappears, leaving behind a puff of smoke and the stench of brimstone. Her protector closes his fist, extinguishing the flames.

The first green male to see her now directs Natalie's protector to a building she hadn't noticed before. The bull creature follows them. Inside the building, out of the sun's glare, Nat finds she can breathe. It's much cooler here. Another bull creature seems to be in charge; the first bull talks to him while her protector leads her to a bed.

The building seems to be a round barracks or inn. There are cots along the walls, a few alcoves dug into the stone wall with lumpy bedding, and some hammocks are strung up. Natalie sits gingerly on a cot and watches her protector warily. He joins the two bull-men and they confer.

Nat finally notices how they are dressed. Her protector wears a knee-length kilt of animal hide with symbols embroidered along the hem. A broad collar of multi-colored beads sits about his neck and shoulders. He wears sandals that lace up his calves. His hair is auburn, like hers used to be, and he is clean-shaven but for a long braided beard that hangs from his chin. She looks at his hands, remembering the tight, painful grip. His hands are huge, and clearly strong. She peels her sleeve up to look at her bicep, and there is a bruise forming. It will likely be very large, and circle her entire arm. She yanks the sleeve down when she sees him returning.

The bull-men are dressed as differently as night and day: the one who assisted her wears a sleeveless robe of animal skins. One of his horns is broken off midway. The other wears a green shirt and dull greyish pants. Both bull-men bear large rings through their noses.

Her attention returns to her protector. In his large hands is a wooden trencher with half a loaf of bread, a slab of meat, and a mug on it. Her protector sits next to her and offers the trencher. Nat is uncertain, but so, so hungry. This is more food than she has seen in many months, certainly more than she could have scrounged in a handful of weeks, and he is giving it to her.

He nods encouragingly, and speaks in a quietly rumbling manner completely unlike his furious shouting at the one who controlled the demon. She finally drags her gaze up, and meets his eyes. Curiously, they seem to be so dark brown as to be almost black, yet they are kind. She gingerly takes the bread.

Natalie has not eaten something so basic as bread for a long time. Before she can stop herself, she is stuffing the entire halfloaf into her mouth, barely chewing. Her protector hastily sets the trencher aside and takes hold of her wrists. His grip is gentler, but firm. He shakes his head, clearly urging her to slow down. She now notices the bull-man standing over them. The two exchange a look between them, but their faces are so unfamiliar, she isn't sure what they are thinking.

"I'm sorry," she tells them, though they don't know her words. "I'm sorry." Nat can't look at them anymore, and stares at the half-eaten bread in her hand. She begins to weep.

Her protector takes the bread and tears smaller chunks from it. He offers her one, again nodding encouragingly. He looks brutish and violent, large and threatening, yet he is patient and kind as well. She lets him feed her. She drinks cool water from the mug. The hard pinch in her stomach relaxes. And then she vomits.

Horrified, Natalie looks from her green protector to the bull-man, trying to convey apology. To her surprise, a very clear _told you so_ expression appears on the bull-man's face. He then returns to his countryman and fetches a fresh trencher. This time, there is only a thin slice of bread, what looks like a plantain, and another mug of water. With his own very large, oddly three-fingered hands, the bull-man tears the bread and peels the plantain for her. He crouches down on what she only now notices are legs shaped like a bull's hind legs. His hooves are as large as dinner plates; she instinctively curls her toes and scoots her vulnerable feet back to avoid being stepped on.

As she eats, the two males confer in low voices. Their words, their language, are wholly unfamiliar. They might be discussing how best to fatten her up for eating, for all she knows. Yet her protector doesn't appear to be thinking about his next meal. Now that she is becoming accustomed to his strange face, she sees lines of worry etched upon his hairless brow. She wants to tell him, to warn him and all his people, of the coming threat, but she is hindered by the language barrier. Does she have time to learn their language before the Legion comes? Or are they already here?

She recalls the imp, forgotten with the offer of food. It seemed to be under the control of the offended one. Her protector showed great animosity toward him, as though they had a long-standing feud. When threats were leveled, her protector chose fire as his weapon, though a hammer with a thick, squarish head hangs from his belt. He commands _fire_.

Natalie looks at her protector, watches his heavy jaw move as he speaks. She sees how his thick lower lip curls around his mighty tusks. She notes the sharp point of his ear, and the ladder of silver hoops piercing it. Glinting on one tusk is a bronze band. His neck is thick, his shoulders broad. Though he towers over her, his body is stockily proportioned. She notes with embarrassment that he bears the telltale signs of mammalian heritage: nipples and a belly button. His people are not _so_ terribly different, then.

Then her protector stands. He glances at her, then leaves the building. Natalie almost follows, but the bull-man gestures for her to stay put. Soon her protector returns, and offers her a hand up. She rises and follows him out.

Calmer now, she is able to notice the small village she has appeared in. There are several small huts, one with a mill powered by the wind. There is a tower on a hill. More strange people are going about their business, though they stare at her with a mix of curiosity and hostility. She sees thin blue males with angular faces and tusks as long as her forearm. Her protector takes her to another of his kind. There are strange winged creatures on perches behind him.

They speak together for a few moments, then the male takes the reins of one of the creatures and urges it to the ground. Natalie is baffled by this creature's mix of animals. Its head and body are very lionine, yet it has bat wings stretching between its forelegs and shoulders. Her protector gently urges her toward the animal.

It wears a saddle. Does he mean for her to _ride_ it?

That is, apparently, what he wants. Natalie has never even ridden a horse; thankfully, this beast is much lower to the ground. Swallowing nervously, she holds the saddle and swings one leg over. The beast remains docile beneath her. To both her relief and shy discomfort, her protector mounts behind her.

Her body involuntarily compresses as he reaches around in front of her to take the reins. His chest presses against her back, and she stiffens. She is too distracted by the invasion of her personal space by such a strange, brutish creature to prepare herself. When he clucks his tongue and kicks the beast's flanks, she only has a split second to fully realize what is happening, then the beast launches itself straight up into the air. Natalie instinctively grabs hold of the mane with both hands and screams. Its wings unfurl and flap, bobbing its body in a jerking, up and down motion as it gains altitude. The ground falls away below them far too quickly for her comfort.

Her protector speaks soothingly, perhaps telling her it'll be all right. Natalie has her doubts. The beast levels off and begins to fly in a more gentle way, gliding for the most part. Though she tells herself it will only make things worse, Natalie peeks over the male's right arm.

An arid grassland similar to the Serengheti rolls past. She can see familiar animals – zebras and giraffes – grazing below. In the distance on either side, there are small mountains. Are those hyenas and lions? She blinks, thinking she must be imagining things. How could such familiar animals be _here_ , on another world?

Her protector tugs the reins, and the flying beast banks sharply. Panicking, Natalie presses hard into his chest and grips his arm more tightly. She can hear, and feel, him chuckle, but it doesn't seem derisive. More gentle, calming words follow, but Natalie is now growing nauseous. The food they gave her was mild, yet her consistently empty stomach is no longer prepared for more than a few bites at a time. The motion of the beast, the distance of the land below them, the frequent rising and falling with the flapping wings... Natalie begins to convulse.

She feels her protector yanking hard on the reins and shouting. He is urging the beast down, but Natalie doesn't think they'll make it to the ground in time. She makes a mighty effort to keep her gorge down, but the sudden drop in altitude does her in. Her stomach heaves violently, and all she can do is aim over the side.

Natalie is fairly certain she hears an expletive in her protector's next words.

Once they cross a river bordering the grasslands, she is surprised to see a desert land with a somewhat out-of-place floodplain. There is even a large crescent-shaped body of water that probably shouldn't be there. Her protector points ahead, and she sees a great wall with giant spikes. In front of the wall are arrayed siege engines under construction, with many large and small green creatures hammering away. Then the flying beast clears the wall and she realizes they have entered a great city. Directly in front of the main gates stands a huge building something like a keep, yet nothing like she's seen in books of medieval history. The ground below is teaming with people like those she saw in the village. A plateau rises behind the keep, and seems to be their destination.

To Natalie's surprise, the flying beast eases gently to the ground. She expected a rougher landing. Her protector dismounts and is immediately accosted by another green male, yelling at him and pointing furiously at the sick-streaked saddle.

Natalie slowly looks around. A large pen full of flying beasts is nearby. A wooden-slatted walkway connects giant towers at either end of the plateau. Hovering bizarrely next to one tower is what looks like a sea-faring ship suspended below a blimp. Another of those long-tusked people lopes by. Several heads turn curiously in her direction, but none show particular shock. Natalie wonders at that; there seemed to be great confusion in the village where she appeared.

She is distracted by her protector, who has finally freed himself from the angry one. He leads her down the walkway and up a ramp into yet another tower that rises up from the ground below and stands alongside the plateau. A great hole is in the floor. Her protector stops at the edge and waits. Natalie hears a great mechanism grinding loudly, but can't find the source of the noise. Then she sees a platform rising up through the hole.

"An elevator?" she mutters incredulously. Something so simple and familiar surprises her. When the platform stops flush with the floor, he steps onto it, and she follows. Another minute passes, then the platform jerks into motion and descends again.

He leads her out of the bottom of the tower onto a dusty street flanked by cliff walls. Built into the rock on either side, and above along ledges, are what look like shops, for there seem to be many green and blue folk haggling for goods inside. The smell of roasting meat fills her nostrils as they pass, and her mouth waters. Natalie is overwhelmed by the strangeness of this place, and its people; there are so many questions she wants to ask, but no one would understand her. She cranes her neck and turns this way and that, taking in all the sights like a tourist in a foreign land.

Finally, her protector seems to have reached his destination. They have passed through a passageway in another wall similar to the one in front of the keep, and emerged into a large valley. To the left is a pond in which several people are fishing. Many more buildings of varying sizes fill the open space. He guides her along the street to a fork and turns right. Huts for commercial purposes give way to more residential-looking structures built into the rock wall or alongside it. He stops at one and knocks on the doorframe, for there is only a curtain serving as a door.

Another green male draws the curtain aside and emerges. He is dressed the same as her protector, albeit with different jewelry. The two talk for several minutes; her protector gestures at her more than once. The other male looks startled; perhaps the tale of her arrival is shocking.

 _I wish I knew what they were saying!_ she laments.

Whatever the topic of their discussion, it seems to have reached a conclusion. The other male joins them, and Natalie must follow. The heat and the stress are beginning to tell; Natalie stumbles behind the two males, squinting in the bright sunlight, her stomach rumbling. Her strength is flagging; she fixates on her protector's heels, but she is otherwise disengaged from what is going on around her. It is all so strange!

The dusty road becomes a stone stairway, and they ascend. Natalie barely acknowledges the increase in the wind, or the winged beasts soaring through the sky. To her surprise, they stop at a hut, and the other male knocks on the doorframe. She expects to see another green person. Her jaw drops when she finds herself face-to-face with a human.


	10. Friends in High Places - Diary Day 158

**Friends in High Places, with Kuadanath – Diary Day 158**

A hush falls over the tent full of injured from the Broken Shore debacle. As soon as the healers realize the High Chieftain approaches the commander, they withdraw to a discreet distance. Kuadanath struggles to rise and greet her chieftain, but Baine Bloodhoof waves her down.

"You are still recovering," he admonishes. "Your courage has earned you a rest."

Kuadanath settles back on the bunk and looks to the canvas ceiling. She swallows her shame and says nothing.

Baine sighs as he sits on a stool next to the bunk. "We could do nothing more than we did. You know that."

"Many were lost."

Her chieftain nods. "That thought weighs heavily upon me as well. It is my hope we may return and reclaim them, if there is anything left to..." He frowns and examines his large hands. "You fought at my side for our place in Mulgore. My father respected you and Brahm, as do I. You obeyed the command to retreat as you should have. There is no dishonor in doing so."

"Tell that to the hundreds we left when we sailed away," she snarls tightly. Tears well in her eyes. "And now I lay here, broken and useless while my people fight..."

"You are not broken beyond repair, and certainly not useless. Many who did not aid us at the Broken Shore have taken up arms. Orgrimmar is well-defended." His voice softens. "It is never easy to lose those we command. They are family, friends, loved ones. We can only seek vengeance for their loss."

"Vengeance is hollow."

"True," her chieftain sighs. "But at this moment, it is all we have." Baine hesitates, then lays a hand upon Kuadanath's arm. "There is one friend you must save at all costs."

The injured commander slowly turns her gaze to Baine. Her brow furrows. "Friend?"

Baine nods. "Sylvanas is now our... warchief." It is clearly a strain to say these words. "She has threatened to turn Karie into one of her Forsaken, to secure her loyalty. You and I both know that such an act is not only unnatural, it is also unnecessary."

Now Kuadanath sits up, ignoring the pain in her ribs. A fierce light shines in her eyes. "If she does this, I will slay her."

Her chieftain is pleased that this news has re-ignited his clanmate's fire, but he adopts a stern glare. "You will do no such thing. Not even if you were well, would I authorize such an act. I trust you will do all in your power to protect Karie from this fate."

"On my honor, I will," Kuadanath swears.

"Good." Baine nods approvingly. "Her mate cannot be at her side every moment."

Her energy spent, Kuadanath sinks back against the pillows. "I will show the 'warchief' that she is worth more alive than dead." Already thinking ahead, Kuadanath mutters distractedly, "She has several trusted friends under my command; I will enlist their aid. More eyes to watch, and ears to listen."

"Not Forsaken eyes and ears, I hope?" he asks, arching his brow.

Kuadanath glowers. "None I would trust with such a task."

The chieftain ponders his commander for a moment, then says, "I wonder that you do not ask why Karie is so important."

"She is a living being, and one I count as a friend," Kuadanath replies. "No one deserves that cursed existence." She pauses, sensing some motive behind Baine's words. "There is another reason."

"Nothing clear at this time," Baine answers evasively. "Suffice to say that Hamuul Runetotem has specifically asked that she be preserved. There is something... odd. He would not elaborate."

"How does he know her?" she asks, frowning. "What is going on?"

Baine waves his hand dismissively. "That is all I know. He does not wish to speculate; he will tell me when he knows more."

"And you will tell me." Her expression is equal parts challenging and commanding. Baine chuckles.

"Of course, Kuadanath. You will know when I do."


End file.
